Fallen State
by ShootingDaggers
Summary: Whilst John continues with life after losing Sherlock, it isn't long before he's once again drawn back into his previous work, with himself at the center of the newest case.
1. Chapter 1

_He falls. _

_That's all John ever sees. The waving arms as the man in the black coat floats almost agonisingly down in front of him. It may be that he watches it in so much detail that's the most painful – or maybe the thing that creates the heaviest pain is that he can do nothing – absolutely nothing – at all to save him. _

John inhaled sharply as he awoke once again to a dark room, heart hammering blood through his ears like a drum and the back of his neck coated in a cold sweat. As he realised the dream of this memory was just that, he sighed a slow breath. Somehow there was no relief to be found in this, just a dull ache. It was a long time since he'd last woken in tears but he had passed beyond that now, going into the realm of numbness and constant fatigue. He was getting over it. He told himself he was moving on and overcoming the demons day by day but it never seemed to get any easier. He just forgot for longer periods of time.

Nine months now. John's new routine was wake up. Breathe. Get out of bed. Relieve himself, brush teeth, make sense of the ingredients left in the fridge. End up eating cereal and lukewarm tea because the kettle's on the brink. Sit in armchair and avoid looking at the one opposite. Put the news on and ignore everything they say. Get dressed, try to look normal. Turn the TV off and go to the surgery.

It had taken a while for the Sherlock storm to pass. The media had practically camped outside, wanting the newest scoop on what the fraud was like to live with, why hadn't John noticed this sooner? Was John in on this? _"Dr Watson – was there anything between the two of you? Why do you remain so devoted to this man? What next for you, Dr Watson?"_

John had said all he'd needed to say on his blog and chose not to say anything more. Eventually they got bored and left him alone. Sherlock Holmes was put to bed and people lost interest. John was able to search for a new job. He'd tried out for a few places but hadn't got far. Then a tiny practice in Knightsbridge had an opening and apparently he'd been the perfect person.

He'd been there for three months and had settled as best he could. Work took his mind off things and the people were pleasant enough. Yes, ok, it might not be as _exciting_ as his previous job but he was still helping people. Couldn't sniff at that.

It seemed he was a hit at the Surgery. Though they knew his past with Sherlock Holmes he proved to be a valued practitioner not only with the staff but the patients. Women seemed to think he was like an adorable, kind little puppy and the men believed him to be an honest man and a good soldier. There were the odd few who gave him funny looks now and again because of his association but Watson ignored it. On the rare occasion that something was said about it he kindly told them what to do with their opinion.

After seeing around twenty patients it was nearing the end of the day and his next patient was a new addition to the practice. John sort of enjoyed meeting the new people. He liked to try and notice things, try and get a feel of them before they'd even spoken. So far he wasn't sure how accurate he'd been. He was however sure that noticing faded tea stains on their shirt meant they liked tea and didn't have very good washing powder, but that wasn't terribly informative and he felt he was more assuming than deducing. He preferred reading their files.

Miss Jane Willows entered the surgery; 27, born in November, previous history of fainting and low blood pressure. In person she was brunette and quite attractive. Apparently that was all he was able to 'notice' at the moment. She was polite, anyway, as she nervously reached out to take his hand.

"Good afternoon," John smiled as best he could. "I'm Doctor Watson."

"Nice to meet you," said Miss Willows, returning his smile before settling down in the chair to the side of the desk as John got ready. He made a brief introduction, then asked what was ailing Miss Willows. Apparently her dizziness had returned. He took her blood pressure, pulse, checked her ears. The only other thing was her blood sugar and he explained this in detail.

Miss Willows nodded along, trying to fit the face and the name together. She was sure she had seen him before, she knew the name but surely... it wasn't until he stood, walking over to the cabinet that had a strange grey hat on top, that she realised.

"You're Doctor Watson, aren't you?"

John paused, confused by the question. "Yes... ?"

"The blogger."

Ah. John felt his whole body tense. "...yes."

Apparently, it wasn't as bad as he'd expected for Miss Willows looked delighted. "I knew it... I used to read it all the time, it was brilliant. Everything you did..."

"Thank you. Raise your head please?" Having retrieved the torch he'd wanted John shone it in front of the patient's eyes. "And follow the light."

The test was done within around thirty seconds and then John went to continue writing his notes. He went on to explain that a blood sample would need to be taken. The needle was regarded with a slight look of terror to which John assured her there was nothing to be worried about and he'd be as quick as possible. Little did he know that his new patient hated needles. When it was put into her arm she flinched, fidgeted then had to speak.

"He helped me once –"

"Hmm?"

"Sherlock Holmes." John swallowed at the mention of his name then looked to Miss Willows. "Sorry. It was before your time. My father was poisoned. We had no idea why or how... Holmes solved it, obviously. Ended up being some weird game our psycho neighbour was playing..." John had dipped his head, pretending to focus on drawing the blood but he was still listening. "He was a very brusque man... very intelligent. My father's alive because of him. My mother always thought him to be rude anyway, but... I always remembered that he had beautiful eyes."

John gave a soft noise that resembled a laugh, a look of nostalgia as he looked down into a space of nothing while holding the blood sample up to the light. He remembered those eyes, narrowed and fierce, cold but alive with information firing in his mind... eventually John cleared his throat, preparing to continue but Miss Willows had something else to say.

"I don't believe he was a fraud." She could have left it before but she knew that look the doctor had on his face. She had been invested in that blog, in the adventures of Holmes and Watson. Now she was near to someone she admired she could finally say what she had been expressing to others if only to assure him... "I know frauds, I work with them every day. Sherlock Holmes was a brilliant man."

"Yes he was." The doctor snapped out of his reverie and then regarded her with a smile. "I'm going to send off this blood sample and we'll be able to check for any abnormalities, do the routine tests... You should receive a letter in the next few weeks and if you make an appointment with us for a month's time we'll go over the results, okay? Nothing to worry about."

That was the end of that, then. "Perfect, thank you."

John tapped his pen on the desk, then began to type up his notes, not even watching what he was doing. His patient had gathered her coat, heading towards the door.

"Doctor Watson...?"

"Yes?"

Miss Willows had paused at the door, her mouth open as if ready to console him or offer some more words but there were none that she could say without feeling completely stupid or probably have it be anything that he wanted to hear. "... I'll see you soon."

John returned home at around 7pm. After saying a good evening to Mrs Hudson he proceeded to sling his work bag on the floor before he sank into the armchair. He sat and stared at the television. Some programme where people had to overcome an assault course with big red balls was being repeated and he watched it without really investing anything. Already knowing that he had nothing for dinner he picked up the phone and dialled the local chinese. He didn't even have to state his address or name, and within half an hour he was scooping up fresh chow mein and fighting off the dribbles of sweet and sour sauce from the end of prawn toasts.

"My life is so exciting."

What had he come to? 'Bachelor John Watson sitting at home eating take away dinners watching lions go at it in the Serengeti while David Attenborough commentates because he has nothing better to do.'

He'd tried to follow Sherlock's work. He'd failed miserably because nobody had that mind, that instinct and pure – knowing. John closed his eyes, resting his head on his hand. The house was too empty. There were no random experiments or odd things hidden in random places, no sounds of the violin when he arrived home, or even someone muttering in the corner... the balance was lost. John was lost.

The phone rang.

Almost asleep John fumbled in his pocket and answered. "Dr Watson."

There was silence – "Hello?" - or he thought there was silence until he heard faint breathing on the other end. John sighed. "This is very mature. Almost disappointing, you could at least ask me what I'm wearing..." Breathing. "Look. I don't know how you got this number but please lose it."

He hung up, annoyed, then rubbed at his forehead. Withheld number. Was there any other kind?

The audacity of the phone call continued to annoy him for the rest of the nature programme. Why would someone do that, get someone's number and then listen to them bite back. Maybe it was some sick pleasure from listening in, the audio version of voyeur. He was sure there was a word for it. Sherlock would have known.

Ten minutes passed and John fell to sleep in the armchair, the TV playing quietly in the background.

On the other end of the phone a blonde man smiled slightly, storing the number he'd dialled and popping the phone into his pocket. He walked over to the window, wiping his glasses on his jumper before settling them on his nose.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's note: The First Chapter was just a set up and received some very nice comments, so thank you :) I'm hoping this second slice wets your appetite just a little bit more! Comments always welcome._

**CHAPTER TWO**

It was October. A year to the day. John Watson sat before his therapist not saying a word and chewing the inside of his cheek. She waited patiently, studying him. If she were to analyse this correctly she'd wager that he was here not to talk, but to get away from the flat. Silence was the loudest scream in many ways. She shifted forwards.

"I know it's difficult." John made a huffing noise in response. "Is there anything you believe you should have done this year? Anything you would change?"

John considered this for a long moment. He'd change a lot of things. Coming here, for one, because it wasn't doing anything to help him. He should have gone to his sister's but then she'd question him and it was too much to bear going through it all. One year. It didn't seem that long at all. Felt like only a month had passed when he thought about it. He should have visited the grave more, maybe spent more time with Mrs Hudson.

"I would… eat a lot less Chinese. Clean the flat more. Maybe get a dog, or a cat. I like cats."

Clearly this hadn't been what the therapist had intended but it was an answer all the same. "Anything you're proud of?"

It took John two seconds this time. "I got a job." He paused. "Yeah that's what I'm proud of. I'm damn good at it too."

"New friends?"

"Yes. Yep."

"How do you find working with your patients?"

John considered this a moment. He could have said boring, because that's what most of the job was like. He didn't want patients he wanted clients, though he didn't think they were too dissimilar. Both had a case they needed solving but with his patients, it was vastly health related and simple to resolve.

Instead he said, "Soothing. I like that I'm still able to help people."

This pleased his therapist and she nodded. "Getting satisfaction out of one area of your life is good, John. It helps you focus and helps you deal with other things you may feel difficult at times. We'll meet again next week."

John returned to the apartment which was no longer home. It was more his residence, the place he could sleep. For that reason it was more like a free hotel without the maids and room service. Mrs Hudson had taken to giving him space but he wasn't quite sure it was space that he wanted.

Because it was so spacious he thought that maybe he should really get a cat. Sherlock had never wanted pets, didn't see the point in them. John had never argued because he realised that the place wasn't a very habitable or normal one that a pet would deserve, but the temptation was there now. As he threw his keys on the table he was mulling over this option, when he was surprised to see a letter addressed to him.

He got the odd bill, mis-addressed because Mycroft was still taking care of things finance wise. It was the least he could do in the circumstances he'd said. John knew that he felt as guilty as sin itself but he didn't want to admit that he was somewhat responsible.

Since it wasn't from Mycroft, John released his grip on the envelope then tore it open.

_You sounded annoyed._

""_!_

One sheet of paper, nothing else on it but those three words, signed in a code of punctuation John didn't understand. He turned it over to study it, see if there were any clues but of course there were none. When had he sounded annoyed? Probably most of the time, he'd become rather snappish lately.

Shrugging he threw the letter back on the table. Bless Mrs Hudson for her internal postal runs. Looked like she'd cleaned up a little too, allowing John to settle in for the night without too much trouble.

Jane Willows, 27, brunette, born in November, patient of Doctor John Watson, strolled the London streets with a spring in her step. The day was bright, she had a month til her birthday and her friends were planning a surprise party for her at the local pub. Of course she hadn't let on that she knew but it was a nice feeling. She'd felt much better ever since Doctor Watson had diagnosed her.

Her frequent fainting hadn't been diabetes like she'd been worried about, merely the fact that she'd missed two of her three meals a day for two weeks or more while she worked on the big advertising campaign at work. Now she'd learnt her lesson she could focus on her assignment.

The new guy at work seemed very friendly and he opened the door for her as she walked inside. Sort of cute, too; blonde hair, crystal blue eyes if a bit skinny all in all. He was shadowing her while she took on one of their bigger clients. As he made her a cup of tea he shoved his glasses up his nose with one finger, trying to avoid getting them steamed from the kettle.

"Are you feeling alright now?" Peter asked her. When she looked up he clarified: "The fainting? Light headedness… nothing serious?"

"Oh! No, so long as I remember to eat something more than two hundred calories three times a day I should be quite alright."

"So no more visits to the Doctor for you."

"Not if I can help it, no."

The blonde gave her an odd sort of smile which Jane supposed was just nerves. He handed her the tea and she thanked him as he sat down opposite, looking over the proposals. Unnoticed by her his blue eyes scanned the text and then set her; so engrossed was she in proof reading her own presentation notes she jumped when he spoke.

"You misspelt 'categorically'." He gave her a soft, reassuring smile when she looked for her mistake. "Just there. Sorry, I'm sort of a grammar Nazi."

The misspelt word was upside down, in size ten text and the document closest to her. Getting over her flustered state she chuckled, shaking her head. "That's what we need around here. Clients take no prisoners, if there's a mistake please let me know."

Peter gave a laugh and nodded. "Very well."

Two hours later, with the whole document almost entirely re-written and the copies neatly fastened in an immaculate way, Jane stood ready to enter the board room to present her most recent concept for the campaign when she suddenly felt rather odd. It was nerves, that was all. Peter gave her a silent thumbs up which she returned with a lacklustre smile, feeling her body drain completely.

Ten minutes later she awoke with a mask over her face, breathing in fresh oxygen from a tank. She was still at the office and had apparently been awake the whole time but her eyes now held her conscious state of awareness.

"Thank God," said a balding man, her boss, who was by her side. A paramedic in a green suit shone a torch into her face at which she grimaced. "We wondered what the hell was wrong, Jane…!"

Jane removed the mask, wincing. "I'm a little confused myself…"

"We'll take you for overnight observation, ok Ms Willows?" said the paramedic. Jane found herself agreeing to it, but she was still in a daze. One minute she was standing, the next…

"The presentation… oh god, Larry…"

"It's alright! Peter stood up to the mark, he's still in there now presenting your work, the board are fully aware of what's happened."

Without further argument Jane was ushered into the back of an ambulance and taken to the hospital. She was asked routine health questions, felt better every moment but she knew that this was possibly a false alarm. The feeling of dizziness was not as dense or soul destroying as the one of failure, at having worked so damned hard just to be unable to physically present her blood, sweat and tears and be damn well proud of it.

Spending the night staring at white ceilings, Jane did nothing but dwell on it.

It was six am. John awoke to the sound of his phone vibrating on the bedside table. At first he thought it was a dream because nobody ever called him at this time of night any more. When he picked it up and felt the cold case in his fingers he knew he wasn't imagining it.

He managed to mumble something that sounded remotely like "Hello?"

There was silence, then a breath. John recognised this from a few months ago but his thoughts couldn't join with his mouth to make a comment. Apparently he didn't need to.

"Do you know what happens to good people, Mr Watson?"

He didn't recognise this voice, a man's voice, deep and dreamy. John sat up in bed, the springs giving a creak under his weight. "Who is this?"

"Bad things. Terrible things."

He put the phone from his face and tried to see the number; withheld. "Sorry but I was sort of in the middle of something… sleep, it's called, you might like to try it."

"You sound annoyed again."

The note. John was waking up more every moment. "What do you want?"

"Irrelevant questions, all irrelevant – are you losing your touch? Or was it Holmes' all along?"

"What questions should I be asking?"

There was a chuckle on the other end. "Good boy… co-operation, thinking on your feet – or in your bed."

"Why did you send me that note?" There was no reply to this. "The letter, why did you send it if you were only going to ring me afterwards?" Still silence. With no chance at all of dropping back to sleep John swung his legs over the side of the bed, glaring into the darkness. "What game are you trying to play with me?"

The dial tone signalled the end of the conversation and John stared at his phone, a glowing white beacon in the center of the room. Why was it that it always made the rest of the room look darker? John switched it off, trying to calm his breaths. He'd thought he would be rid of mystery and nutters who liked to toy with people. Apparently there were more out there, always more, and this one had happened to find John's number.

For the first time in a long while instinct kicked in and he scrolled through the phone, standing up and heading to the door. He crossed the hall, went to walk into Sherlock's room to alert him of this development, then stopped dead in his tracks.

Sherlock wasn't in there. He hadn't been for twelve long months, yet somehow John had quite forgotten this fact in the need to share the phone call with someone who'd understand. His hand hovered over the doorknob, like if he touched it he'd be electrocuted. Slowly he withdrew and let his hands fall to his sides. It was the closest felt to crying in a long time.


End file.
